Waiting
by Marla Singer
Summary: The narrator recuperates after the book/film events.
1. Default Chapter

Warning for those not familiar with the book or movie, spoilers ahead! And if you haven't read or seen Fight Club, why are you reading this?   
  
******  
  
Sybil. The Three Faces Of Eve.  
  
I'm a goddamned movie of the week.  
  
Split personality disorder. My subconscious created an alternate being because I was unhappy with my lot in life. My job was unfulfilling. I wasn't rich or good looking. I had no real friends. I tried to better myself with material possessions, and almost had something with self help groups, but when those failed...  
  
Enter Tyler.  
  
He downsized my life. I learned to survive with just the basics. His philosophy became mine. I discovered the thrill of getting the shit kicked out of me. Good times.  
  
Now I've had time to think, locked away in this starch government facility. They tell me there won't be any criminal charges because I hadn't full mental responsibility at the time. I'm not sure if this place is any better than prison anyway. Less rape here I guess, so that's a plus.  
  
They got me on this medicine now. Three pills a day to keep the imaginary friends away. I get punished with cotton mouth and drowsiness simply because I couldn't find a hobby to distract myself from my boring existence.  
  
Hobbies are mucho importante here. They constantly remind you of this. It keeps the mind from destructive thinking. So I do a lot of knitting now. Yeah, yuk it up. I'll have you know that ex football player Rosey Grier was a knitter, and he's not even mentally unstable.  
  
On the plus side, I can open up a scarf shop if they ever let me out. But that's something they don't like to talk about. They're scared for my safety. They say Tyler did a lot of damage. But, seeing as we never hurt anyone, I don't there's much chance of running into a psycho with a Charles Bronson thirst for vengeance.   
  
Did I mention no one visits anymore? My parents came down once. Dad patted me on the back. Mom cried. End of family support. I don't blame them though. But Marla - I don't know why she stopped coming. She writes to me though. There's a stack of her letters in the corner. I never read them. Yes, it's childish of me, but I always thought that she was the sort of girl who would enjoy having a boyfriend in the loony bin. Guess I was wrong.   
  
198. That's how many ceiling tiles there are in this room. Same amount as the last time I counted.  
  
When I first came here, I tried to get better. Now, I can't remember why I even bothered. Maybe it was wrong of me to kill Tyler. He would have a reason for why I should get better. Maybe if I stopped taking my medication, he'd come back and rescue me..  
  
  
End.   
  
  



	2. Reruns

  
My sincere apologies to Chuck Palahniuk. No disrespect intended.  
  
*****  
  
  
Welcome back to the Sunny Valley Rest Home. Yet another pleasant sounding designer label that disguises the fact that its products are made by abused underage workers. Or in this case, rest home being a pseudonym for insane asylum. The problem with this place is the amount of free time we have. There is nothing to do, and every hour seems like two. Up till now, my focus has been trying to kill the time. But sulking in my room while counting the tiles is only going to lengthen my stay in the Sunny Valley Rest Home. If I want to be on the path to better mental health, I'd best find a way to pass the time. Saying 'pass' instead of 'kill' is already one step towards recovery, or says one of my shrinks. And if I want to make a good impression, I had better start mingling with the charming residents of this hellhole.  
  
You can play checkers with Sally. 3"9 in her stocking feet, but one helluva player. In here, that means she can tell the difference between black and red, and doesn't drool on the board. That old guy in the corner? He used to be a famous. An A-list movie producer who made one too many flops starring his ex-hooker girlfriend, all while an entire year's crop of Columbia's finest was up his nose. He's cool, but only will speak with dialogue from his old flicks. So, don't be frightened when he's babbling on how much the colour of your eyes make the sunset look like it was drawn with Crayolas.   
  
It's not just the people that are worth the price of admission. If you're looking for a price to catch up on reruns of Petticoat Junction, you've come to the right place. G-rated entertainment 24 hours a day will get on your nerves after a while, but if I had to pick a TV town to live in - it'd definitely be Hooterville. Just don't sit in that blue chair in front of the set. It doesn't belong to anyone, no physical harm will come if you look at it funny. It just smells like someone mistook it for a Port-a-potty.  
  
Now, for a real character, there's no one better than Coco Puffs , as in 'he's cuckoo for'. Definitely a life timer. No one will say what he's done to get in here, but from what I've seen, I'd crown him the king of crazies. Case in point - one day during breakfast Coco discovered the jam for his toast was missing. The orderly responsible was a newbie, straight outta community college. Poor kid didn't realise how much importance Strawberry Smuckers had to ol' Coco. I should mention that they don't allow us the use of forks or knives, spoons being the utensil of choice. What they forget, or pray we don't figure out, is that the handle of a spoon makes for a dandy eye gouger. So, on this one Saturday morning, a jam crazed patient blinded one orderly and banished the rest of us to the use of plastic spoons.  
  
Times like that do liven the place up. The overwhelming feeling of suffocation returns when I'm back in my room. Let me take you on the grand tour. Four walls - standard white issue; one mirror with non threatening safety glass; a desk stocked with pens and stationary - which conveniently omit the fact that I'm writing from a mental hospital. And lastly one bed with a mattress so thin I can feel the pills I've hidden inside pressing on my spine.   
  
It's been two weeks since I've stopped taking my medicine. It seems longer. I'm still waiting for Tyler to return. Maybe I did kill him. In that case, why am I still here? I will go to sleep and tomorrow I'll wake up. Everything will be the same. It's not possible to change in this place. They can only alter your attitude towards things with drugs. Everyday is the same as the next and I'll adapt until the day I don't get my strawberry jam and take the eye of some kid who only took the job to pay off his student loans.  
  
****  
  
A knock on the door wakes me. Already, this is different. It's no ordinary knock. It's the shave and a haircut bit. The keys jingle in the lock and I'm already smiling. I forego the usual reluctance to get out of bed and hop out with nervous anticipation.  
  
The door swings open, revealing my friend and savior Tyler Durden. His hair is slicked back, he's clean shaven and dressed in an uniform that signifies he is, or more likely, posing as an employee of Sunny Valley.  
  
There's isn't that moment of awkwardness you might expect with encountering a man you once left for dead. He does, however, rush at me with flying fists of fury. If anyone deserves a revenge beating, I guess it'd be me. I'm against the wall, hands and eyes tightly clenched, when I realise there's no anger behind the attack. His "punches" are hardly more than a brotherly type pounding.  
  
He stops, and the all too familiar Durden grin appears. "'So, you couldn't live without me?"  
  
Go ahead - admit that you're weak. Better to make a joke than to let a non existent being know that he's needed. "Nah. I just thought you'd blend right in with the rest of the wack jobs."  
  
He doesn't laugh. In one quick movement Tyler has my mattress and a switchblade in his hands. He splits the seam open and watches as a cascade of multicoloured medication spills onto the floor. "Tsk tsk. What would the men in white think of this? Maybe I should call them to show them what you've done."  
  
I laugh. "You couldn't. They can't see you."  
  
Tyler cocks his head Spacey style. "You know that, yet you still want me around. Coming to accept your looniness is a sure sign that you belong in this dump."  
  
"I want to get out of here." When you don't have a plan, tell the truth.  
  
"If you took your medicine like a good little boy, you'd get better."  
  
I shake my head. "I've been here long enough to know I wouldn't make it."  
  
"If you escaped, they'd come looking for you. Then this would most definitely turn into a permanent stay."   
  
Tyler's gotten very rational these days. It scares me. I used to be that person. "Then stay here with me. Please." I'm begging, how pathetic. I take a second to get it together. "You have to. You don't exist without me."  
  
A very cruel look crosses Tyler's face. "What makes you think that I'm not out there in the real world right now? That I've fully taken over and this place is all in my mind - and now you're just a prisoner in it."   
  
The way these words come so matter of factly from his mouth only convince me of his honesty. This very well might have been what Tyler's existence was like before we met. The walls seem to creep towards me and I can hardly find the strength to breathe.   
  
Tyler snaps his fingers in my face, bringing me out of my semi catatonic state. "Why would you even think I'd help you? Especially after you tried to dispatch me with that bullet. No. You're here forever kiddo."  
  
Any hope of my freedom disintegrates as the man in the clean white suit leaves the room. All of the rejection in my life does not compare to this. Finding yourself in the purgatory of a recently humanized figment of imagination is no way to live. I would collapse onto my bed if it weren't gutted.  
  
I sink to the floor instead. A gel cap explodes under my knee.   
  
This is all there is and will ever be.   
  
Trapped. At least have the courage to end it. I'm sitting on the solution. Might as well taste the rainbow, now that Tyler doesn't want me. I scoop a handful of capsules debating whether it's better to stuff them into my mouth or dispense them one at a time.  
  
I don't have a chance to make a decision. My choices fly up in the air with a deft smack of Tyler's hand.  
  
"Taste the motherfucking rainbow!?! You're reciting candy slogans like a zombie consumer even in the loony bin."  
He drags me up my collar. "You are not touching those pills. Do you know how hard it is to resurrect yourself? I finally glue myself together after your last suicide attempt and now you're going Marilyn on me. God!"   
  
The picture comes into focus. I'm not part of Tyler's imagination after all. He's still part of mine. Normality, at last.  
  
He relaxes. "I'll admit it. I'm a lousy bluffer. Ever wonder why we never played poker together?" Tyler's arm slings itself around my shoulder. "You can't blame me for trying, though. Right, buddy?"  
  
Buddy. Not two minutes ago, he had me convinced that I'd be better off dead, now I'm his pal? If he's part of my split personality, he has the half with the manic depression. "So, are you going to help me?"  
  
"Help you, help us - same diff. We'll think of a plan." He cuffs me playfully on the side of my head.  
  
Sure, he seems cheerful now, all the more reason to keep my guard up. Still, it's good to have him back. "No hard feelings then?"  
  
Tyler smiles mischievously. "Yeah, you wish."   
  
End   
  



End file.
